


how little I loved (before I loved you)

by qbrujas



Series: with love's old alchemy [3]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: (everything i write is a relationship study let's be real), Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Love Letters, Relationship Study, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:49:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29763360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qbrujas/pseuds/qbrujas
Summary: The letter lies on her desk, in an envelope filled with dried tulip petals.
Relationships: Female Detective/Natalie "Nat" Sewell
Series: with love's old alchemy [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2008408
Comments: 15
Kudos: 18
Collections: A series of familiar letters





	how little I loved (before I loved you)

**Author's Note:**

> Credit goes to [evil_bunny_king](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king), who sent me Nat's wonderful letter as an ask on tumblr.

_Eva_ ,

—the note starts, as always, with her name. And then, in Natalie's looping, comfortable hand:

_प्राणप्रिये._

_Darling_.

_It is such a thing, to refer to you this way—and yet, I have learned so many things and lived so many lives and still do not have the words to express the whole of how I feel for you._

_Eva_.

_I haven't known myself, before you._

—

The letter lies on her desk, in an envelope filled with dried tulip petals.

* * *

Eva would be lying if she said she hadn’t been expecting something—if her time with Nat has proven anything, it’s that her girlfriend will not miss a single opportunity to be a hopeless romantic, to show her love and devotion in ways that are guaranteed to take Eva’s breath away.

But expected or not—you don’t just get _used_ to Nat Sewell. She always catches you off guard.

_Oh, Nat._

Eva can’t help ( _doesn’t want to_ ) the smile that tugs at her lips as soon as she opens the envelope, which had been sitting on top of the files she’d set aside to be dealt with today (and how had Nat gotten it to the station, so early in the morning, when no other trace of her presence was to be found? Even she couldn’t be _that_ subtle). Can’t help the way her heart seems to skip not one but _several_ beats, the way her teeth dig into her bottom lip and heat pools on her cheeks.

And as Tina would say ( _has_ said, teasingly, when Nat comes to pick her up at the station), Eva doesn’t blush, not ever… but when it comes to someone like Nat, the exception is more than justified.

Sweet, beautiful, impossible, _unfair_ Nat—it’s a little ridiculous and a lot over the top, if she’s being honest: dried tulip petals, custom-made stationery (because _of course_ Nat Sewell has custom-made stationery, as she has custom-made _everything_ ). Nat’s beautiful, even handwriting, in that ever-so-slightly shimmering ink that Eva knows comes from a specific bottle that sits on the desk in the corner of her room.

(And Eva finds a slight thrill—something warm, gentle; something subtle and comfortable that hadn’t been there when they first started dating—in knowing the exact origins of the paper and the ink, in realizing she knows which pen Nat had used to write the words she now reads.)

Eva doesn’t read romance novels—hardly ever reads novels at all, much prefers the more prosaic and grounded realm of non-fiction—but she figures this kind of thing is exactly what she would find in one. She would never have thought a person like this could be _real_.

And yet there is nothing, _nothing_ more real than Nat, as she is constantly reminded whenever she stands face to face with the woman. Everything seems to fade into the background and blur when confronted with the vibrancy, the intensity of Nat’s mere existence.

She reads the letter again, and her breath catches, her smile widens.

(She’s glad Tina can’t see her right now.)

_It is such a thing, to refer to you this way._

Eva finds the mirror of the feeling in herself—Nat is only Nat to her except when she is _mi vida_ , when she is _mi amor_ and _mi todo_ and when Eva herself is _meri jaan_ and _priye_ and a thousand other words in other languages that Eva only knows now because of her.

Words that mean more than language—words that mean more than what they are. Words that had never been used for anyone else, by either of them.

Words that mean _know me,_ that mean _this is who I am underneath everything else, this is the part of me that is still—will always be—too raw to show anyone but you._

Oh, Nat.

Nat, Nat, Nat.

Eva sets the letter down on her desk, but she can’t bring herself to look away from it yet. Follows the lines of Nat’s handwriting with the tip of her fingers, the paper soft and velvety to the touch.

_I haven’t known myself, before you._

Eva’s smile turns soft—less giddy but just as fond, just as warm.

She had never been with anyone long enough to celebrate Valentine’s Day, before Nat. She’d never had anyone write her letters, or look at her the way Nat does—with that intense focus that makes her feel like her skin is on fire, that feels just as physical as the caress of her hands, the brush of her lips.

Never had anyone who made her feel so completely off-balance and be _happy_ about it.


End file.
